


A Good Dog's Guide to Brooklyn

by formerlydf



Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:05:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formerlydf/pseuds/formerlydf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a big city, but Lucky — otherwise known as Pizza Dog, formerly known as Arrow, "hey you," or псина — is a pretty smart dog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Dog's Guide to Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell/gifts).



> Thanks to reena_jenkins for brainstorming with me and, possibly, being even more excited about this prompt than I was (and I was very excited). Also my undying love and affection to novembersmith and hapakitsune for looking this over for me <33333333

**Tony’s Pizza  
** **Bed Stuy, Brooklyn, NY**  
**4 paws**  
_Crust is dense, soggy on bottom. Mozzarella is stretchy, a little greasy but not in a bad way. No pizza is bad pizza. Service is nice._

The polyester men smell like sweat and gun oil and sometimes the sour leather punch of cologne. Arrow’s used to it. He sleeps next to the door and mostly gets the garbage outside smell in his nose, anyway.

It's better when he's outside with them. He likes it outside, even if he does more biting when they’re watching the door. He likes the people. Some of them are friendly.

“--- - pet your dog?”

Arrow woofs under his breath and wags his tail. He likes petting. It doesn't happen much, but sometimes if the polyester men aren't thinking about it one of them will scratch his head.

The human smells like wood and metal and old coffee and a little like he hasn’t showered, but mostly he smells like the best thing in the world, which is the pizza he’s holding.

“--- you ---- bro?”

“Dog. --- - pet it -----?”

“He bite, bro.”

He does bite, sometimes. That’s why they keep him. He’s not the biggest dog, there’s a mastiff down the block and a rottweiler that can bowl him over if he’s not watching out for it, but they’re nice dogs. They slobber on everyone and never bare their teeth. They jump up on the couch on top of their humans, and their humans give them kibble and sometimes bits of hamburger or peanut butter. That’s okay. They don’t know that sometimes biting is important. Sometimes it’s not, but sometimes that’s what teeth are for.

But the human is giving him pizza.

“Who’s a good boy that likes pizza?”

Arrow is a good boy and he _loves_ pizza. And this pizza didn’t even come out of the garbage. If the human wanted to pet him, he wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t bite, either. He would maybe lick the human’s hand and see if there was any pizza sauce left.

But the human goes inside, away from the food part of inside and into the musty part of inside, where there are thick walls and no windows. Arrow can’t hear him anymore, or smell him, until he comes out again through the window with the glass and the gunshots.

They’re hurting him. It’s not — it’s not good, that they’re hurting him. He gave Arrow pizza, and Arrow’s seen him sometimes, in the neighborhood. He always tries to take up less space. Arrow would know. That’s what you do when you don’t want to get kicked.

The mastiff and the rottweiler, they’re nice dogs. They couldn’t jump up and bite the arm holding the gun, force it down and away. But they wouldn’t get kicked, either.

The human runs back, but everything is rain, and lights, and rushing wind coming closer, a crash and the spray of glass and the howl of brakes. It smells like burned rubber, and everything hurts, and everything is bloody and Arrow can’t see —

-

The human, it turns out, is called Clint.

 

 **The trick arrow collection  
** **Clint Barton’s apartment, Bed Stuy, Brooklyn, NY**  
**1 paw**  
_Terrible. To be avoided no matter what. Even the sticks that smell normal. Pettings afterward were high quality though._

Clint calls him Lucky, or sometimes Pizza Dog, and sometimes Good Dog. It's not much of a change. He's used to answering to Arrow or Hey You or псина. After a few days he stops answering to Arrow, though, because his human and his human’s human say that a _lot_ , and they're always talking about pointed sticks.

There are a lot of the other arrows in the apartment. It doesn't take Lucky that long to figure out which ones are okay for chewing and which ones aren't, partially because they smell weird and partially because Clint wises up after a few days and puts the not-okay ones up where Lucky can't reach too well.

Lucky knocks one down once, when he's still healing and bored, and he gets wrapped up in rope and has to whine piteously until Clint comes and gently untangles him. He sticks to the plain wooden arrows after that. Or Clint’s socks.

 

 **Frankie’s Franks and Relish  
** **Bushwick, Brooklyn, NY**  
**2.5 paws**  
_Too many fancy toppings, not much meat. Bacon wrapping is good but avocados and jalapenos seem unnecessary._

Sometimes he wanders, once he finally heals. It’s hard to wander far when he’s keeping his one eye watching out for polyester men around every corner — it’s hard to wander far with one eye, when he keeps messing up where things are — but he can’t stay inside all day. He’s not an inside dog.

But he’s maybe wandered a little far from his human’s building today.

“Gimme --- ----- --- ----- gets hurt,” the larger human growls. He has a gun pointed at the smaller human, right up against her back.

The polyester men always had guns around, small ones and large ones, tucked into every corner. They smell and they’re loud and Lucky hates them like he hates the polyester men, but humans with guns are usually willing to throw a dog into the street.

Lucky didn’t want this. He was just nosing at a few hot dogs that had missed the trash can and trying to figure out the best way to get back to Clint’s. He shouldn’t have followed that truck in the first place, even if it did smell like sausage and cheese.

“Okay, okay,” she says quietly. She smells salty and scared, and she talks like the big human’s got rabies and she needs to be calm and quiet and coaxing. “---- --- -- ---- -----, okay?”

It took him so long just to walk again without hurting. His eye still hurts. And his eye — he doesn’t know if he’s still good at anything, with only one eye. Maybe he shouldn’t have left today. Maybe he’s supposed to just be an inside dog forever, like the little chihuahua down the block that ends up being carried on walks half the time.

She hasn’t given him pizza, or anything, but Lucky’s already mid-leap anyway, digging his teeth into the larger human’s shoulder and yanking down. He’s off by a little; the gun clatters down, but the larger human has enough momentum to throw Lucky off and knock him down into the pavement. He turns, and Lucky’s already bracing to scramble up and run away —

but there’s a click and a buzz that hurts his ears, and the larger human collapses, twitching. The smaller human is holding a cylinder that smells like electricity.

“Who’s a good dog,” she says, her voice wobbling.

So maybe Lucky’s still not an inside dog, after all.

 

( **In & Out Burger  
** **Los Angeles, Not Brooklyn, Not NY**  
**mostly 4 paws**  
_Didn’t need the onions but mustard burger is good. Sneezed a lot after, though. Meat is juicy, not overcooked. Holds together well, still tastes good with alley dirt (tangy). Should have one in New York._

California is drier than Lucky is used to, and it smells like ocean and smog instead of cigarettes and metal and suspicious puddles. But Kate always comes back to the metal home covered in interesting scents, like flowers or prison or that human in the coat who smells like highways and cliffs.

Lucky likes it. He followed Kate because he thought she might be doing something interesting, and she was. Lucky’s never traveled before.

He scrounges most of the time because otherwise Kate will just worry about feeding him, and she barely has any people food as it is. The pickings aren't so bad. There's a restaurant nearby where the dumpster is mostly rotting vegetables and coconut flour that makes him sneeze, but sometimes the people who give out food there will step out back with something real to eat. If he whines, sometimes they even give him some.

“----, don't ---- the dog people food,” one of the girls says, the one who’s hunched over her food like a bigger human is going to run in and bite it out of her paws. Hands.

“--- --- animal style,” the other girl says, and laughs. “--- animals, right? ---- --, look at him, --- --- one eye, -- -------- - lot of treats.”

“Ugh,” the other girl says, which is a Kate thing and means that she still doesn't like it but she’s going to let it happen anyway. Kate and Clint have a lot of very specific noises.

The laughing girl crumbles up another bite of her burger for Lucky, who licks her fingers. “--- you lost, boy?” she asks, looking at Lucky’s collar. “--- --- --- ---- Brooklyn?”

Lucky barks happily.

“Shh!” the hunched girl says. “----------- hates dogs.”

“So? She's not here.” One bite for her, one bite for Lucky. Seems fair. Unless she wants to give the whole burger to Lucky, that would also be fair. “--- ---- ---.”

From somewhere around the corner, Lucky hears the slam of a car door.

“Like that?” asks the hunched girl.

“...Shit.”

Both of them cram as much of their burgers into their mouths as they can and leave what they can’t for Lucky, who noses away the tomatoes and lettuce and watches them run back into the restaurant like someone is chasing them. He would follow and see, but it doesn’t seem as important as the burger, and the yelling is over by the time he’s finished.

Instead he goes back to the metal home. Kate is curled up on the bed, her knees almost hiding her face, so Lucky jumps up behind her and wriggles until his head is resting on her hip. She sighs and runs her hand from his ears to his tail, which he thumps happily on the blanket.

“--- you homesick, Lucky? I ----- -- - ----- homesick.”

Lucky whines at her reassuringly.

Kate has bed days sometimes. Clint got them too. Lucky thinks it’s the human equivalent of crawling under a table to lick your wounds. At least, it stops anyone else from kicking you for a while.

“Not ---- -- going back. Kate Bishop doesn’t --- ----. -- -------.”

Lucky means to bark, but instead he sneezes. Kate laughs a little damply into her knees.

“-- glad you came ---- me, Lucky.”)

 

 **Captain America  
** **mobile, currently Brooklyn, NY**  
**3.5 paws**  
_Good thighs for jumping up. Nice head scritches, good pressure, varies location to include neck and back. Smells like sweat (ok), paint (ugh), no crumbs hidden in clothes. Does not taste like justice._

All the dogs nearby will sneak food to the puppy two alleys over when they can. She's not very nice about it, but she's tiny and one of her back legs is all messed up so she can't run fast, and the alley only sometimes has enough food to eat. Lucky likes Brooklyn, but it's not always very friendly when you're not lucky like he is.

The puppy bites but she can't always jump high enough for it to matter much. That's why she she lives in the alley, where she can drag herself under the dumpster and snap at anyone who tries to drag her out.

Lucky's at the entrance to the alley with half a sausage in his mouth when he notices that she's not under the dumpster today, though. She's trying to get back there, but there are three humans blocking her way and making noises that don't sound nice. They’re not speaking like the polyester men, but they sound like them. There’s a particular note to it, when a human or a dog is enjoying being mean.

Lucky growls.

There are three of them but if he grabs the one that smells like cheddar and takes him off balance, he might knock into the one that smells like garlic and chili and hot sauce. Then maybe if they're distracted, the puppy can bite at the ankles of the third one — hot dogs, pickles, and too much body spray — and trip him up.

It's not much of a plan, especially not when he’s still sore from fighting a few days ago, but he's always worked more on instinct anyway. And dogs have to protect small dogs who don’t have good humans around to patch them up.

But then — good humans, he thinks. Humans who are nice and not useless. It’s a thought, anyway. Maybe Lassie had some good ideas after all. Anyway, biting can always be the next plan.

When he barks, as loudly as he can, the humans spin towards him. They’re still blocking the puppy’s way, but at least they’re not hurting her. They don’t seem scared, but that’s okay. He doesn’t need them to be scared. He’s just… waiting. To see if there are any humans around who aren’t useless.

Amazingly, it works.

A tall human stops at the end of the alley, with light footsteps for someone so big. The sun is bright behind him, and he's carrying a bag with something round and flattish in it; Lucky can smell the metal even from here. “Three -- you ------- --- small dog?” he asks. His noises are very even. “--- ------- - ---- fight, -- --?”

“---- ---,” cheddar says, which sounds a little like отвяжись, but garlic and chili is starting to sweat. The garlic smells even stronger now, but salty, too.

“Shit, man, - ----- ----- ===---- ------- =======,” he says, his voice getting lower and then higher, and then wavering again.

“---- ---, -- -- not,” cheddar says.

The puppy, who is sometimes stupid and angry but still smart enough to know her moments, starts slowly getting up to hop away.

“Oh, I am,” the tall human says. “-- -- --- ---- -- ---- -- ---- ----- ----- -- ---- -----?”

He didn’t look that big when he walked into the alley, but he looks bigger now, his shoulders up like he’s raising his hackles. Lucky wouldn’t be surprised to see him growl.

“Shit, bro,” hot dogs and pickles says, and makes a break for it. After a moment, the other two and the tall human follow. There are some sounds after that, thuds and the tall human talking like Kate when she says something and slams the door and whatever it is makes Clint stay slumped in a chair for the whole day. Lucky doesn’t pay much attention. He’s got the puppy to worry about, still trying to hop back under the dumpster.

 _?????,_ he yips quietly.

 _> :(_, she snarls.

_!!!!!_

Lucky tries to edge towards her, just to nose her over and see if she’s got any injuries, and she flinches and tries to scoot away. He stops, and she stops. He lies down, and she looks at him warily.

 _:( :( :(_ , he whines, and she whuffs out a breath and lowers her head in a signal that he can come in a little closer. He sniffs at her, trying to stay back a reasonable distance. She twitches, but mostly stays in the same place.

Footsteps come closer behind Lucky, and the puppy scrabbles backwards the best that she can on three legs. Lucky turns around and growls at the newcomer, but it’s just the tall human, who stops and crouches down to make himself less threatening. His hands are up so Lucky can sniff them, which is always a nice gesture. And now that Lucky is thinking about it, he smells familiar. Lucky’s smelled this on Clint when he comes back to the apartment groaning and dirty and sometimes bloody.

It’s not a reason to trust him, because Clint smells like lots of people sometimes, but it’s good to know anyway.

The tall human reaches out slowly for Lucky’s collar and looks at the tag. He snorts. “-------,” he says. “----- -- home, boy?”

-

Lucky doesn’t mean to go back to Clint’s apartment with the tall human, it’s just that the tall human coaxes the puppy out and picks her up and Lucky follows them just to make sure she’s okay, and it turns out that’s where the tall human is going. That’s good. Clint is Lucky’s human, but he’s good with small dogs. And when the tall human knocks and knocks and doesn’t get an answer and then opens the door anyway, Clint doesn’t shoot him with one of the other arrows, so that’s a good sign. Lucky definitely would have bitten him if he was bad.

“Clint,” the tall human says.

Clint is still on the couch. He moves his hands. Lucky is beginning to recognize these ones; they’re the movements he makes when someone is talking at him and he can’t hear them. Those are always the times when Lucky is barking at him and he doesn’t notice until he’s turned around.

In this case Clint goes to find his metal ear things, which he doesn’t do for everyone who comes and talks at him.

“Cap,” Clint says, and then asks, “-- ---- - _dog_?” He frowns down at the puppy.

Cap and Clint keep making noises at each other, quiet even though they’re the only ones here. Eventually Lucky jumps up and plants his paws on Cap so he can get a better look at the puppy. Might as well, now that she’s being held where she can’t wriggle away.

She’s scrawny but decent-looking enough, out of the shadow of the dumpster. Lucky can’t tell what she’ll look like once she’s fed and grown, besides mottled and possibly still bitey, but she at least doesn’t seem hurt.

After a few moments and some more noise, Clint gets out the dog food and pours it into Lucky’s bowl. “Lucky, stay,” he says firmly, and Cap carefully sets down the puppy so she can reach the food.

Is she staying? If she’s staying, she’s going to need a different bowl. Looking out for another dog doesn’t mean giving her his food bowl.

Clint whistles, and Lucky looks up to see a treat coming his way. He jumps up and catches it neatly out of the air, settling down on the floor so he can crunch it properly. That’s okay consolation, he thinks. For now. But this bowl situation better not be permanent.

“Nice dog,” Cap says. Lucky barks. “----- --- you --- ---?”

Clint shrugs. “Russian -----. Long -----.”

Lucky pauses in gnawing at his treat, the way he always does when he thinks about the polyester men, but he doesn’t have to worry about them anymore, he thinks. So maybe they’re just talking about Lucky.

Cap hums. He’s got his face towards Clint, even though the rest of him is still turned towards where the puppy is finally chowing down on Lucky’s dry food.

“I ----- you --- ---- trouble - --- ---- ---,” Cap says, and Clint rubs the back of his neck.

“I ------- --,” he says, but it’s not his this-means-business voice. He never uses that one very often anyway. He didn’t even use it when Kate and Lucky left.

“I know,” Cap says. Clint rocks back on his heels a little. “--- you can tell -- -- you ---- ----, you ----.”

“You have ----- shit -- ---- ----,” Clint says. “Saving --- ----- shit.”

Lucky can smell chicken roasting in the apartment underneath them. It’s terrible, being so close and so far.

“You’re one -- my ---------. ----- --------. You’re not alone, Clint.” Cap sounded that way a little bit when he was trying to get the puppy to let him pick her up — sort of gentle and firm. She bit him, but there was less blood than Lucky would have thought.

Clint sighs. “I --- ---- --- dog -- --- vet. I ---- - good ---.”

“I can —” Cap says.

“I got it,” Clint says, shoving his hands in his pockets and frowning off at nothing, and Cap nods.

It’s not exactly silent, because the puppy is still chewing, the lights are still humming, and there’s a neighbor who keeps his music just barely below the limit. But there’s a quieter few moments, anyway.

Clint breaks first. “Wanna ----- Dog Cops?”

Cap tilts his head. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

 

 **Sofa  
** **Clint Barton’s apartment, Bed Stuy, Brooklyn, NY**  
**4 paws and a tail wag**  
_Toast crumbs. Grease stain on bottom of middle cushion. Coffee stain on top and bottom of left cushion. Smells like butts. Dogs always allowed. Usually contains Clint Barton’s lap. Highly recommended._

Lucky went on a walk earlier, and then Simone and the small Simones gave him a cookie, and he heard some women talking like the polyester men but they just smelled like lace and mothballs and buckwheat. They patted him gently on the head and called him хорошая собака.

He didn’t get into any trouble today. He just nosed around and ate some pizza out of the garbage, and then he came back to the apartment and had a few bites of kibble. Clint’s not making those faces that he does when he’s hurt somewhere, so he probably didn't get into trouble either. The puppy — named Ace mostly accidentally by Kate — still can't go outside much without trying to hide under things, which means that it's a nice quiet day for all of them.

“Hey, boy,” Clint says, and Lucky lolls his tongue out happily. He's full and warm and the only time he hurts these days is when he he decides to interrupt someone else's fight, and he thinks the new poodle downstairs is starting to like him. Plus, hiding notwithstanding, Ace is starting to look less panicked and angry around the eyes these days.

He jumps onto the couch, avoiding the end where Ace is curled underneath a blanket, and drops his head onto Clint's legs. Clint's twirling an arrow in one hand, but his other hand comes up to Lucky's head and starts petting. What a good human. Maybe he'll even get pizza tonight.

"Who's - good dog?" Clint murmurs. "You're - good dog."

It's nice to go places, Lucky thinks, but it's nicer to come home.

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY YULETIDE. I love Lucky, so I was so excited by this prompt, even if I have no idea how it went from just being about Lucky's adventures to HOME AND NOT BEING ALONE ARE SO IMPORTANT AND ALSO CLINT ACCIDENTALLY ADOPTS ANOTHER DOG. (Steve comes to visit sometimes.)


End file.
